SG falls down and goes boom - AGAIN. And, a little on my neuroses.

I fall down. A lot.

Yes, sometimes I’ve been drinking when said tumbles occur. We all know about the Broken Wing Incident of 2009.

This weekend I slipped and fell at the pool. Maybe two (or five) SoCo Lime shots and two amazing keg stands had something to do with it. (And, for the record, at the ripe old age of 30, and the whopping weight of about 105 pounds, I outlasted everyone at the party. And … that’s probably not something I should be bragging about.)

But I maintain I would have fallen regardless. It was wet and slippery. That’s what she said.

Anyway, I have a rather large and unattractive abrasion/bruise the shape of the great state of Ohio on my bottom and it’s not going away anytime soon.

I also hit my head. I’m not exactly sure how that one happened. But, I have an egg on the side of my head, and I’m pretty sure I had a mild concussion most of Sunday because I spent the day talking to myself and drifting in and out of sleep where I dreamt about birthing teeth. I wish I were kidding.

Also, I went to the hairstylist on Saturday and she burned my forehead a wee bit while straightening my new thick bangs.

Yesterday I was walking Little B through the grassy area in front of my apartment and it felt like something bit my leg. I looked down and saw that my feet and ankles were covered in tiny ants that were gnawing on me like I gnaw on cheddar when I’m working on my night cheese.

I had to soak my feet in camomile lotion last night, but they’re still covered in weird red bumps. And now they smell funny and have a weird pink tinge.

So, basically, I’m a hot mess.

I see VC on Thursday for the first time in a month. (For those of you who have been e-mailing me for a status report while I take long breaks from blogging – yes things are still really awesome there.) I’m not exactly thrilled about the fact that I look like I’m returning from war (Love is a battlefield. What?)

My sister-in-law says maybe I should wear a helmet when I go out. Martini has maintained that protective gear should be involved whenever I drink – elbow pads, knee pads, the whole deal. I mentioned ice skating to her the other day and she said “No, no, no. You + ice skating = trip to the ER.” Fo sho.

I don’t know how many of you read Chelsea Talks Smack, but if you don’t, you really should. She wrote this great post last week about all our little insecurities and how they can just crash down upon you when you really like someone and you’re trying to put your best foot forward. It’s so true. I’ve been so embarrassed all week that I look like I participated in an Ultimate Fighting Championship match this weekend. I’ve been cursing myself for being such a klutz. But the truth is, clumsy is just part of who I am. I’ve always been clumsy and I always will be (and I have something of a Jim Beam problem …)

Did I tell you all how I pulled a muscle in my foot playing Rock Band and the doc told me I should “wear sneakers for now on”? I can’t help it – a girl has to bounce while she’s shredding to Aqualung.

Yesterday, a really dumb thing happened and I made a huge deal out of it even though it really wasn’t. It had to do with day-long harassment and a suicide threat via Crackhead Ex who has specifically been told about a half a dozen times to not bother me anymore --and a misdirected text response to his ludicrousness. I made that word up.

I seriously let it upset me WAY more than it should have. I was completely neurotic about it for about an hour.

A particularly loony friend of mine (I mean “loony” with much love) said to me today “SG, we just have a little crazy in us. Some people bottle it all up inside and then it just bursts and people say ‘Wow, that chick is crazy!’ We let ours trickle out and then move on.”

I think that’s probably true. Yes, I’m a little clumsy. Yes, I’m a little crazy. But I’m lots and lots of good things. And I am who I am.

What little neurosis do you all wish you could hide away from people? What do you do when the crazy trickles out at the least opportune moments?

P.S. VC suggested that since I’ve been sucking at keeping up with posting lately maybe I should just post my Rock Band scores of the day. I think there’s something to that. So, for the record, I scored 111,800- and something playing Everlong last night and I was pretty proud. And I finally got through Carry On on “hard.” And, I’m a dork

Rockin' out with your (insert four-letter word for male parts here) out. And tattoo!

I know I haven’t written in quite some time. I really have no excuse for why except I simply haven’t felt like it. I fully recognize how lazy this sounds. I’ll never be your Martha Stewart. Or your Tracy Flick. Or your beast of burden. What? Moving on.

I did promise you pictures of my tattoo, soooo if you haven’t lost interest I’ve posted the “after” above. Sweet, yes? People ask me what it’s all about, so here it is in a nutshell: I’ve had a crappy couple of years. The big C. Twice. The worst crack head, lying liar head BF ever, and some other family stuff that was really heart-breaking. I kind of shut down for a little while. I drank too much. I still do that. But then I realized, through the support of some great friends, that I am, by nature, a very loving, emotional person. I got this tat as a reminder that it’s OK to wear your heart on your sleeve because no matter what, it will always mend. So there ya go. Corny, but all mine. Forever. On my skin … forever.

I was in Minneapolis all weekend visiting VC. It’s taken until today to make my pancreas, liver and kidneys stop staging a French-style revolution inside my body. Excessive drinking: It’s the new black. (When will this post start making sense? I’ve got $5 on never.)

I met a guy in a bar the night before I left who was wearing a baseball cap that said “Rock out with your cock out.” I took a picture, of course. (This was after drinking two of something called “wondrous punch.” There is a reason for its name.) This was one of the highlights of my weekend, nay, my life. Seriously.

This is not to say the rest of the weekend was any less awesome. I’m coming to quickly love Mpls. Returning to Phoenix was the pits for plenty of reasons. As one of my new besties from MN says it is, indeed, Satan’s asshole here. Worse than the actual weather was getting to my apartment to find that my A/C had gone out and was actually blowing hot air, causing all of my plants to shrivel up and die and Little B. to greet me with his tongue hanging out and his eyes rolled back in his head (he’d only been there a few hours so don’t go calling PETA.)

So I’ve now learned a huge pitfall of the LDR is that you get to have these perfect weekends, but then you have to deal with returning to the empty house and the no BF to snuggle up to, and the absence of giggles over silly jokes. It’s like a hangover on crack.

To remedy this, Martini had me over for dinner and she, friend A. and I played dress up in her closet. Yes, we’re all around three decades old. So? Somewhere there are pictures of me in a skin tight, ass-hugging gold lame mini dress, black chiffon robe, hot pink stilettos, blue scarf and sequined flapper headband – yes, I look like a cross between a broken down Bette Midler in Beaches and an extra tanked Miss Hannigan. Meow.

I spent a few days feeling all forlorn and icky but then I realized that’s just really stupid. I’m happy. I have this great new person in my life. I’m making new friends. I’m seeing new places. There’s absolutely nothing to be sad about.


I know there are lots of you out there who’ve done the LDR – share with me your secrets of dealing with the day after because sooner or later one of these Crazy Flapper on Speed photos is going to leak out.

Why I think God is punking me

It started yesterday. It was day four of the Swine Flu! (wouldn't it be funny if everyone screamed every time someone said that? Like on Pee Wee Herman's Playhouse. Try it. Swine Flu!)

Anyway, it was day four of my illness and I had to return to work, but it beat the shit out of me because, well, you know how it is when you lay in bed for three days and then on the fourth day you get up and take a shower and just that wears you out but then you have to do the stuff you showered for so then you're exhausted. Or maybe that's just me. Because I'm old. And lazy.

By the time I got home I felt like poo, but I had promised myself that this was Day 1 of Back to the Gym, my latest endeavor to get ready for an upcoming trip to Vegas. I've been in a cast for six weeks and used it as an excuse to do absolutely no physical activity so I'm looking a little soft around the edges, if you know what I'm saying.

I got home, put on my kickers, some old gray sweat shorts, a t-shirt that says "I'm Cool Like That" and a headband. I'm wearing zero make up, but it's the gym, I tell myself, and I live in the gayborhood. No one (straight) will see me.

I've got to walk Little B first, so I get him suited up and ready to go and then I stop.

The Greek lives in the building next door and it is 6 p.m. Prime dog walking time.

I don't remember much about the night I met The Greek but I do remember that he lives in the building next door and that he owns a dog. Just then (really just then, not for the sake of moving my story along) I get a text from Martini. "Just ran into The Greek. He's funny. I'll tell you about it later."

I say "Psyche!" to Little B. and kill about 20 minutes in my apartment to ensure that I will not run into him. Then I head out.

I'm walking happily along past all the familiar bushes and bikes B. likes to pee on when I approach this cute little bistro that just opened on the ground floor two buildings over. Standing outside is this bartender guy, who I call Vespa Guy, because I once saw him riding one down the street.

Vespa Guy works at this little hipster dive I like to hang out at when I'm in the mood to drink Chimay. Or just in the mood to drink and walk home safely. Well, mostly safely. I did break my arm walking home from this particular establishment, but that's neither here nor there. What's important is that he's cute and we've had a flirty thing going on for awhile.

I get closer. I'm smiling. His back's to me. I think, "I'll say 'hi,' and something clever like ... Hi?" Wait. I'm ugly right now. Balls. Ok, walk fast. He won't notice, he won't notice, he won't

Vespa Guy: Hey there! You're cast is off!
Me: Um, yeah
Vespa Guy: That's awesome. Does it feel good?
Me: Um, yeah
Vespa Guy: That's good. Have you eaten here? (he gestures at the bistro.)
Me: Um, yeah. Well, kind of. I came here but they were out of food (WHY DO I SPEAK???)
Vespa Guy: Wow. Well, then, you should come back. I'm working here now, too.
Me: Um, yeah. (What is my problem? Have I unknowingly had my frontal lobe removed?)
Vespa Guy: Well, hopefully I'll see you soon!
Me: Yeah. I mean, Yeah! Definitely.

I walk away. Fast. I turn the corner and feel a strong urge to kick myself but then someone might think I've actually lost it and call the authorities. I already sing and dance a lot in my neighborhood. Hitting myself could be the last straw.

As I round the corner to the home stretch of my walk I'm still mentally abusing myself for the Vespa Incident when I notice a black car slow down near me. Lost person or rapist? Crap.

The passenger window rolls down. A waft of very nice smelling cologne comes out. A man with a pleasant face leans over. Rapist! No. It's The Greek. I recognize him.Woo Hoo!

At first, this fact alone astounds me so much that it takes me a minute to realize he's talking.

He's saying something about running into Martini and how B. is cute and how we should get together. I don't know what I said to him. I kept looking at his face. It's a nice face. Heart all a flutter face? Not so much. But sweet. Then I look at his very neat khakis, polo shirt, belt. Conservative? Probably. Damn. Stay with the conversation SG.

He says he's afraid Martini and I think he's a creep over the whole making out thing. I say "Don't sweat it. Takes two to tango." Smooth.

Later I text him and say we really don't think he's a creep. He says I seemed uncomfortable when we spoke. I say it's because I looked like hell. He says he thought I looked pretty. LIAR! He wants to bed me. However, I think I'm intrigued enough for a date.

As I'm entering the gym, I run into Creepy Bi-Curious Guy . We haven't spoken in three months since I invited him to meet me and some friends out late one night and then proceeded to ignore him once he got there. There's a good back story. I'm not a Cold Hearted Snake. For realz. Needless to say our interaction was quick and awkward. (That's what she said.)

Tonight, hot hot hot neighbor, referred to here as Gym Guy, who I thought might be gay but now know isn't (because we ran into him out one night after Martini had had a few and she cleverly asked "Are you gay?") was at the gym.

He waited until I was at a 4 incline, going about 5 miles an hour, with The Promise Ring blaring in my earphones to come over and talk to me.

Gym Guy: (lips moving. I can't hear him)
Me: WHAT!? (in a much too loud voice. I take out my earbuds)
Gym Guy: Hey, how does it feel to have that cast off? (again with the cast. I'm going to need to wear that thing forever to give people something to talk about.)
Me: (panting) great! I'm glad to be back in the gym
Gym Guy: Your first time back? I haven't seen you here (He noticed I was gone!)
Me: No. Yesterday was. But it feels good. I'm not allowed to lift but once I can maybe you can show how to get this arm back in shape (Seriously, smooth, right?)

Then a huge drop of sweat rolled down my forehead and dropped off the tip of my nose. I swear both my eyes and his followed it as it crashed to the ground in slo-mo. Me-ow. I'm hot. Seriously boys. Come and get me.

Later I decided to attempt to go to bed early but this damn cough is seriously killing me. So I make a late night run to the nearest pharmacy for some of the strongest stuff they'll sell me.

I'm in jammie pants, my glasses (which I NEVER wear) the same black headband and again, no make up. I pull in and I kid you not there are two fire trucks and about 12 spectacular looking firefighters in the parking lot.

Can't a girl leave her house without running to all the potentials (or past potentials?) in her life?

I feel like I'm on What Not to Wear. Or like God is punking me.

Guess who's an auntie!?!

Me!!! Check her out. She came a month early but is a healthy little nugget says the doc.

I got the call as I was leaving work today. She lives on the other side of the country, so this picture is all I get for now.

My sister is officially the model of perfection. Sweet and cute; college-educated; good looking, smart, attentive husband from a good family, with an army job; church-going; and now a perfect little girl. If I didn't love her so damn much, I'd probably hate her -- there's a fine line you know.

I was elated when I found out my sis was pregs. I dreamed of all the little outfits I'd buy her, and how I'd take her to the ballet and teach her to pick out the perfect nail polish based on the season (and some more gender neutral stuff I can't think of right now.)

I also thought it would take the pressure off of me to push my own out, but it only made people give me sad looks and start whispering when I entered the room.

I'm OK with not having that right now (LIES! LYING LIAR WHO LIES!!!) because I know it will happen if/when it should. (In all honesty, I've thought of adopting for a long time, so this will remain a no push zone.)

My sister says she always wanted an aunt who was smart, a little weird, and would travel around the world and teach her things and bring her presents (our only biological aunt is an alcoholic mess who never traveled anywhere more exotic than the drunk tank.) She says I can be that for her baby. Besides, I don't really have the patience or regulated serotonin level for a child right now.

As I started to write this post my dog was running around the apartment, whimpering in a panic, with a Beggin' Strip in his mouth trying to figure out a place to hide it and I was all "B, I swear if you don't hide that thing or swallow it right now I will hide it up your butt!"

I don't think CPS would think I was funny.

So it's auntie SG for me! I can't wait to meet her in person. And the crazy genes in my family will survive another generation.

My food snobbery bites me in the ass, or did I bite it? The snobbery, not my ass ...

This morning/afternoon (somewhere around noon, I think -- it's all one foggy, boring sameness to me right now) I utilized one of my little cooking tricks that people have actually told me was useless -- and by people I mean you Mr. Mopey Ex Naysayer Man. Haha! Don't you feel stupid now.

The skill being , drum roll please ... one-handed egg cracking. Ta-Da! For my next trick I will juice oranges using my armpit (Ew).

I have been eating pretty much microwave popcorn and ramen since The Arm Incident of 2009, except when friends buy me lunch or kind neighbors open jars for me.

I looked around my kitchen this morning with a rumbly in my tumbly and a serious jones for the pain med that must be taken with food unless I want to hurl the white foamy stuff that is strangely similar to what my dog vomits many mornings after drinking his water too fast (overshare?)

Anyway, as I stood in the small strip of space I lovingly call my kitchen, I was overwhelmed by the stuff I needed both hands to do. Freshly ground pepper, nixed. Fancy, expensive parm reggiano, can't grate it. Fresh veggies, can't chop. Jars and jars of sauces, olives, jams, can't open any of them, despite my best attempts at using my monkey feet to grip.

I couldn't even open a can because I try to be all green and have a hand-held opener. Crap sack, nut sucker, farts.

I'm on the verge of a MSG rage when it donned on me -- the incredible edible egg and SG, the One-Handed Wonder.

This injury has had the ol' seratonin hurtling toward the earth a few times this week, but each time I out smart it, I'm that much happier. We really are resilient buggers.